THERE IS a common misconception that our founding fathers were slavishly committed to the cause of building a great nation and nearly nothing else. That’s odd. It has been well documented that in 1777, possibly to reward himself for a job well done on that whole booting-out-the-British thing, George Washington went and bought himself a little treat: a piece of country property in what today we call West Virginia.

It’s true, you know. Like a hedge funder might have responded to a full page, color come-on for condos in Turks & Caicos in some glossy rag years hence, Washington, his brother Samuel plus other signers of the Declaration of Independence, all snapped up lots in the resort town of Bath, Virginia, just a few miles south of the Potomac River.

The town, which sits in a narrow valley, was renowned for the hot springs that bubbled up through a rich layer of sandstone. Washington liked the baths. You heard it here first: G-Dubs was a big spa sissy. (What do you want to bet that Mr. Dollar Bill also moisturized. Pansy.)

Prior to the arrival of the colonists, the town they called Bath was already known as a haven of health, wellness and relaxation. Native Americans from all over the Eastern Seaboard had been vacationing here forever, believing firmly in the powers of the mineral-rich waters. They came from as far away as Upstate New York. Which is really far, if you don’t have a car. Which they didn’t.

I do have a car, so Bath — now, in the aftermath of the Civil War, known as Berkeley Springs, West Virginia — is just two hours out of Washington, DC — all except for the last seven miles of it by freeway — Berkeley Springs is just minutes south of I-70, west of Hagerstown, Maryland. This puts it really close to just about everywhere.

George Washington first laid eyes on Bath when he was 16 years old, as part of a survey party sent out at the bidding of Thomas Lord Fairfax, who famously now has a county full of shopping malls named after him, down in Northern Virginia. Back in the day, Fairfax owned the springs, but never held them privately. Consequently, the town was rather famous as a place for all-comers to relax and take the waters, which spewed out at a rate of over 1,000 gallons a minute, with a mineral content of more than 10 percent and a pleasant temperature of just over 74 degrees.

More than two centuries later, the scenery may have changed, but the water is still doing its thing. Today, Lord Fairfax’s property is known as Berkeley Springs State Park. It sits at the center of Berkeley Springs, still a compact village just a few blocks end-to-end, on and off the main drag, now known — but of course — as Washington Street. The state park is a lot like a village green elsewhere, except that unlike a village green, which is mostly grass, there’s a complete bathhouse complex, kind of like the one, say, in Budapest’s City Park, except a lot closer to home and with fewer naked Germans.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of taking the waters anywhere in Eastern Europe, the Berkeley Springs experience will be familiar to you. You enter the bathhouse, which reeks of minerals and cheap cleaning agent, exchange the most minimal of pleasantries with a grizzled matron at the front door, slap down a few bucks — here, it’s $20 for a half hour — and get ushered towards the back, where you strip down naked and jump in the pool. There’s one big difference here, though.

Turns out, my $20 gets me a private bath, a 750-gallon affair in its very own room, with a big window that lets in natural light. There are towels, hooks for my clothing, a chair to sit in, a pitcher full of water straight from the spring (delicious) and the pool. It’s huge, about 7 feet wide and twice as long, deep and warm. My skin tingles the way it should when you step into mineral-rich waters, and the next half hour flies by. Actually, it’s more like an hour. It was a quiet morning in the baths, being a weekday; apparently, other people have better things to do. I’m not sure what. Maybe they were all in the other building across the park, getting cheap massages.

I had only one goal, massage-wise. In a town that likes to say that it has more massage therapists than lawyers and doctors (something like that, anyway), the best known masseur perhaps is Frankie Tan.

A motorcycle-crazy Malaysian expat who trained in Thailand before moving to the U.S., Tan arrived in Berkeley Springs more than two decades ago. Today, after giving thousands of massages over at the Country Inn here in town, Tan owns Atasia Spa, about a block or so from the state park. Atasia is part of a compact, walkable downtown that has turned into quite the charmer of a destination, a mix of bookstores, galleries, cafes and accommodations catering in large part to a Mid-Atlantic urban stressite crowd.

It’s not all too awfully predictable, though. Unique touches to the downtown include the quaint, Depression-era Star movie theatre, which still lights up each weekend. Right around the corner is the home of Washington Homeopathic Products, which operates out a storefront facing the state park — they’ve even got a factory in back. Also here is the smart Lot 12 Public House restaurant, which one Washington paper said was worth the drive, just for dinner.

Housed in an old newspaper office on Congress Street, Atasia is a world away from the utilitarian scene in the park, a restful, two-story complex carved out of the historic wood-frame building. Word on the street was that Tan had magic hands that would turn me into a little puddle after about 10 minutes. The environs may have been more sophisticated, but the prices sure weren’t — the massage was just $68, about $20 more than you’d pay in the state park, and about half of what I recently paid for a really bad rubdown at a supposed world-class resort not too long ago.

In a second-story massage room, bathed in natural light, I am ordered up on to the table, where I’ll lie flat, facing the celing. Tan is clearly skilled, even if a little brusque. “Turn over,” he’ll say. Or, “Shoulders now. Sit up.” It’s like he’s in a competition with himself to see how few words he can use in a one hour period.

Honestly, though, his lack of chattiness is appreciated — talkative massage therapists are far too common these days. You know the ones, they spend five minutes explaning how they’re going to look away while you turn over, and also that they’re going to hold up the sheet so they can’t see. As if I care, lady — I’m already naked on a table in front of a perfect stranger: Git-R-Done!

The hour flew by. I started to think about what else I might book, having already pretty much memorized Atasia’s list of services the day before, mostly because I couldn’t believe that the prices were so low. There was a steam and herbal wrap package, about an hour’s worth of fun, again for just a little over $60. I might even experiment with the sorts of things I’ve never done. Pedicures ($45). Facials ($68).

Or not. By this time, I am starving from all the extreme relaxation. A trusted local source had urged me to try the Earth Dog Café, which had opened just last summer, slightly south of the center of the village. Walking in to the back room, all done up like Christmas with a nice paint job and soft lighting, plus an ingredient-conscious menu that contains things like veggie burgers and salads, I feel like I’m somewhere in Northern California, except that Berkeley Springs is completely without pretense.

There are times, in fact, that some people get slightly exasperated with the town. West Virginians think it is too odd, outsiders think it’s too redneck. Some people think it’s too much of both and find themselves both confused and unsettled. The fact that it is a jumble of both — jumble being the operative word — makes it very unique. It’s like a transitioning neighborhood that got stuck somewhere on its way to losing the final 30 percent of its bodegas, which makes for an interesting mix. Unlike some spa towns, where sometimes it can feel as if everyone is reading from or living by the same script, Berkeley Springs has a nifty sort of static electricity. You never know if the person you’re speaking to is going to turn out to be a hunter or an animal rights activist.

This split personality is on display at the Earth Dog, where I am now sitting at the counter, in the front of the restaurant. This part of it doesn’t look sexy at all. It looks like any roadside diner. “Days of our Lives” blasts from the television, and I can see what they’re doing in the open kitchen. The menu echoes what you see in the streets of the town — sure, they can do healthy, but they can also do a pulled pork platter. I order the latter. Wouldn’t you?

Searching for coffee after lunch and pressed for time, I stop at the nearby gas station, which is about as un-spa as it gets around here, a buzzing hive of people stopping for newspapers and junk food. Call me crazy, but suddenly, I was in the mood to eat Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Which I did, flying over the hills and out of town towards the city of Martinsburg, Lynyrd Skynyrd blasting from the radio because it was either that or Christian talk. Between you and me, I’d had plenty of the latter to last me during the first 18 years of life.

Within minutes, the identity crisis on display back in town appears to have been solved. Instantly, it was goodbye spas, springs, homeopathy and that fancy new wine bar. Hello trailers, red barns, wood piles, hello creeks and bible chapels, signs announcing the sale on premises of things like Apple Butter and Rabbits. Signs enticing you to enter Pentecostal churches so that ye might be saved, some of them even with cute come-ons such as “Free Trip To Heaven — Inquire Here, Sunday.”) After a morning in the baths of Berkeley Springs, I wasn’t exactly worried about my soul.

THE LOWDOWN

GO: Berkeley Springs is four-and-a-half hours by car from New York, and less than 2 hours from Washington-Dulles Airport.

MORE INFO: Learn more about the spas and lodging options in the town by calling (800) 447-8797 or log on to berkeleysprings.com

An abridged version of this article appeared in the New York Post on 1/27/09.

4 MORE THINGS WE LOVE ABOUT WEST VIRGINIA

West Virginia is one of those states that hides in plain sight, and if you’re wondering why, try getting anywhere, fast.

First, there’s its nutty topography, an impossible swirl of hills and hollers that can make even the most committed road tripper cry uncle. Going anywhere in a straight line is rarely possible; sometimes, the fastest way to get between point A and B in the Mountain State is to leave.

Then there’s the shape of the state, which is the sort of thing that goes over great at nerd parties. Did you know, for instance, that West Virginia is about an hour from Cleveland, Ohio, and yet it is also considered to be part of the Washington, DC suburbs, while still being convenient to Kentucky? You do know. Luckily, some of the state’s finest assets aren’t all that far from civilization — here are five great stops for anyone looking to dabble in the place that John Denver once called “almost heaven.”

1) Down by the Rivers

One of the most remarkable historic towns in the United States can be found right where the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers converge. Come to think of it, Harpers Ferry is a lot like Pittsburgh, except that there are just a few hundred people living down here today, in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains. First known for the ferries operated by a guy named Harper, and later a major flashpoint for Civil War activity. The story of John Brown’s famous raid, along with lots of other local history, is told at Harpers Ferry National Historical Park, which blends seamlessly into the town, all along the riverfront. Basically, a triumph of preservation, and a must-see. Winter’s a perfect time; summers bring major crowds, and you may end up parking more than 2 miles away and shuttling in, thanks to the impossible parking situation in the compact village.

You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to get there, but it’s worth the trek to the schmancy Snowshoe Resort, perhaps the snazziest ski hill in all of Appalachia, complete with one of those postcard-ready “villages” that are all the rage nowadays. There’s a key difference here, though — for one, not all ski resorts put their base village at the top of the hill, which makes for nice sunsets. Also, not all ski resorts south of the Mason-Dixon get this kind of snow, or have Snowshoe’s snow-making prowess. That, good food and good live music — not to mention your choice of attractive lodgings — make this a curiosity worth going for at least once, if you’re tired of the New England scene.

If more people went whitewater rafting, West Virginia would be rich. After all, the state is home to some of the fiercest rapids anywhere, and draws thrill-seekers from all over the globe. If you’re serious about giving it a whirl, hit the New and Gauley Rivers, in the southern part of the state, where outfitters do a brisk business in springtime, equipping the foolish who don’t mind that this ride just might be their last. Wimps can try their hand at the rivers later on in the year, when things calm down some.

Due to the state’s wacky geography, it stands to reason that the state’s number one tourist attraction would be the one that’s easiest to get to. This happens to be a sporting goods store, located just off I-70 along the twelve mile stretch that cuts across the Northern Panhandle on its way between Pittsburgh and Columbus. Upwards of two million travelers per year make the stop, mostly to gawk at stuffed dead beasts and cool guns. That’s not all this short stretch has to offer, though — just down the hill, on the Ohio River, the grand old city of Wheeling was a major player in our nation’s transportation and industrial history. Interestingly, the city of about 30,000 has in place much of the infrastructure from its boom days — notably, a heap of sexy Victorian architecture that you’ll probably want to buy (you can afford it), not to mention grand structures like the neglected Bank of West Virginia building, the shuttered Capitol Theater and the massive old B&O Railroad terminus, now home to a community college. Learn more about the past — as well as see and purchase work of local artisans — at the Artisans Center at the corner of Main & 14th Streets. Even those not the least bit interested in any of the above will probably dig the fish sandwiches sold at Coleman’s, down in the city’s historic Centre Market district. (Try the alligator soup, too.) If you’re passing through on a Saturday, stick around for the Wheeling Jamboree, an eclectic variety show playing at the Victoria Theater that revives a historic local tradition that dates back to the 1930s. Tickets are just $15.